Black Mischief

by Evelyn Waugh

  ‘What I came to say is that I’m just off to Azania.’

  ‘No, no, dear boy. You are to lunch with Jo at The Travellers’.’

  ‘And I shall need some money.’

  ‘It’s all decided.’

  ‘You see I’m fed up with London and English politics. I want to get away. Azania is the obvious place. I had the Emperor to hunch once at Oxford. Amusing chap. The thing is this,’ said Basil, scratching in his pipe with a delicate pair of gold manicure scissors from the dressing-table. ‘Every year or so there’s one place in the globe worth going to where things are happening. The secret is to find out where and be on the spot in time.’

  ‘Basil dear, not with the scissors.’

  ‘History doesn’t happen everywhere at once. Azania is going to be terrific. Anyway, I’m off thereto-morrow. Flying to Marseilles and catching the Messageries ship. Only I must raise at least five hundred before I start. Barbara wanted to give it to me but I thought the simplest thing was to compound for my year’s allowance. There may be a few debts that’ll want settling while I’m away. I thought of giving you a power of attorney …‘

  ‘Dear boy, you are talking nonsense. When you’ve had luncheon with Sir Joseph you’ll understand. We’ll get into touch with him first thing in the morning. Meanwhile run along and get a good night’s sleep. You aren’t looking at all well, you know.’

  ‘I must have at least three hundred.’

  ‘There. I’ve rung for Bradshawe. You’ll forget all about this place in the morning. Good night, darling boy. The servants have gone up. Don’t leave the lights burning downstairs, will you?’

  So Lady Seal undressed and sank at last luxuriously into bed. Bradshawe softly paddled round the room performing the last offices; she picked up the evening gown, the underclothes, and the stockings, and carried them outside to her workroom; she straightened the things on the dressing-table, shut the drawers, wiped the points of the nail scissors with a wad of cotton; she opened the windows four inches at the top, banked up the fire with a shovelful of small coal, hitched on the wire guard, set a bottle of Vichy water and a glass on the chamber cupboard beside the bed and stood at the door, one hand holding the milk tray, the other on the electric switch.

  ‘Is that everything for the night, my lady?’

  ‘That’s all, Bradshawe. I’ll ring in the morning. Good night.’

  ‘Good night, my lady.’

  Basil went back to the telephone and called Mrs Lyne. A soft, slightly impatient voice answered him. ‘Yes, who is it?’

  ‘Basil.’

  A pause.

  ‘Hullo, are you there, Angela? Basil speaking.’

  ‘Yes, darling, I heard. Only I didn’t quite know what to say … I’ve just got in … Such a dull evening … I rang you up today … couldn’t get on to you.’

  ‘How odd you sound.’

  ‘Well, yes … why did you ring up? It’s late.’

  ‘I’m coming round to see you.’

  ‘My dear, you can’t possibly.’

  ‘I was going to say good-bye — I’m going away ‘for some time.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose that’s a good thing.’

  ‘Well, don’t you want me to come?’

  ‘You’ll have to be sweet to me. You see I’ve been in rather a muddle lately. You will be sweet, darling, won’t you? I don’t think I could bear it if you weren’t.’

  And later, as they lay on their backs smoking, her foot just touching his under the sheets, Angela interrupted him to say: ‘How would it be if, just for a little, we didn’t talk about this island? … I’m going to find things different when you’ve gone.’

  ‘I’m mad for it.’

  ‘I know, ‘ said Angela. ‘I’m not kidding myself.’

  ‘You’re a grand girl.’

  ‘It’s time you went away … shall I tell you something?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m going to give you some money.’

  ‘Well, that is nice.’

  ‘You see, when you rang up I knew that was what you wanted. And you’ve been sweet tonight really, though you were boring about that island. So I thought that just for tonight I’d like to have you not asking for money. Before, I’ve enjoyed making it awkward for you. Did you know?

  Well I had to have some fun, hadn’t I? — and I think I used to embarrass even you sometimes. And I used to watch you steering the conversation round. I knew that anxious look in your eye so well … I had to have something to cheer me up all these weeks, hadn’t I? You don’t do much for a girl. But tonight I thought it would be a treat just to let you be nice and no bother and I’ve enjoyed myself. I made out a cheque before you came … on the dressing-table. It’s for rather a lot.’

  ‘You’re a grand girl.’

  ‘When d’you start?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll miss you. Have a good time.’

  Next morning at twenty to ten Lady Seal rang her bell. Bradshawe drew the curtains and shut the windows, brought in the orange juice, the letters and the daily papers.

  ‘Thank you, Bradshawe. I had a very good night. I only woke up once and then was asleep again almost directly. Is it raining?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, my lady.’

  ‘I shall ‘want to see Mr Basil before he goes out.’

  ‘Mr Basil has gone already.’

  ‘So early. Did he say where?’

  ‘He did say, my lady, but I am not sure of the name. Somewhere in Africa.’.

  ‘How very provoking. I know there was something I wanted him to do today.’

  At eleven o’clock a box of flowers arrived from Sir Joseph Mannering and at twelve Lady Seal attended a committee meeting; it was four days before she discovered the loss of her emerald bracelet and by that time Basil was on the sea.

  Croydon, Le Bourget, Lyons, Marseilles; colourless, gusty weather, cloud-spray dripping and trickling on the windows; late in the afternoon, stillness from the roar of the propellers; sodden turf; the road from the aerodrome to the harbour heavily scented with damp shrub; wind-swept sheds on the quay; an Annamite boy swabbing the decks; a surly steward, the ship does not sail until tomorrow, the commissaire knows of the allotment of the cabins, he is onshore, it is not known when he will return, there is nowhere to leave the baggage, the baggage-room is shut and the commissaire has the key, anyone might take it if it were left on deck — twenty francs — the luggage could go in one of the cabins, it will be safe there, the steward has the key, he will see to it. Dinner at the restaurant de Verdun. Basil alone with a bottle of fine ‘burgundy.

  Next afternoon they sailed. She was an ugly old ship snatched from Germany after the war as part of the reparations; at most hours of the day two little men in alpaca coats played a fiddle and piano in the deck bar; luncheon at twelve, dinner at seven red Algerian wine; shrivelled, blotchy dessert; a small saloon full of children; a smoking-room full of French officials and planters playing cards. The big ships do not stop at Matodi. Basil at table talking excellent French ceaselessly, in the evenings paying attention to a woman of mixed blood from Madagascar, getting bored with her and with the ship, sitting sulkily at meals with a book, complaining to the captain about the inadequacy of the wireless bulletins, lying alone in his bunk for hours at a time, smoking cheroots and gazing blankly at the pipes on the ceiling.

  At Port Said he sent lewd postcards to Sonia, disposed of his mother’s bracelet at a fifth of its value to an Indian jeweller, made friends with a Welsh engineer in the bar of the Eastern Exchange, got drunk with him, fought him, to the embarrassment of the Egyptian policeman, and returned to the ship next morning a few minutes before the companionway was raised, much refreshed by his racket.

  A breathless day in the canal; the woman from Madagascar exhausted with invitation. The Red Sea, the third-class passengers limp as corpses on the lower deck; fiddle and piano indefatigable; dirty ice swimming in the dregs of lemon juice; Basil in his bunk sullenly consuming cheroots, undeterred by the di
stress of his cabin-companion. Jibuti; portholes closed to keep out the dust, coolies jogging up the planks with baskets of coal; contemptuous savages in the streets scraping their teeth with twigs; an Abyssinian noblewoman in a green veil shopping at the French Emporium; an ill-intentioned black monkey in an acacia tree near the post office. Basil took up with a Dutch South African; they dined on the pavement of the hotel and drove later in a horse-cab to the Somali quarter where in a lamp-lit mud hut Basil began to talk of the monetary systems of the world until the Boer fell asleep on a couch of plaited hide and the four dancing girls huddled together in the corner like chimpanzees and chattered resentfully among themselves.

  The ship was sailing for Azania at midnight. She lay far out in the bay, three lines of lights reflected in the still water; the sound of fiddle and piano was borne through the darkness, harshly broken by her siren intermittently warning passengers to embark. Basil sat in the stern of the little boat, one hand trailing in the sea; half-way to the ship the boatmen shipped their oars and tried to sell him a basket of limes; they argued for a little in broken French, then splashed on irregularly towards the liner; an oil lantern bobbed in the bows. Basil climbed up the companion-way and went below; his companion was asleep and turned over angrily as the light went up; the porthole had been shut all day and the air was gross; Basil lit a cheroot and lay for some time reading. Presently the old ship began to vibrate and later, as she drew clear of the bay, to pitch very slightly in the Indian Ocean. Basil turned out the light and lay happily smoking in the darkness.

  In London Lady Metroland was giving a party. Sonia said: ‘No one asks us to parties now except Margot. Perhaps there aren’t any others.’

  ‘The boring thing about parties is that it’s far too much effort to meet new people, and if it’s just all the ordinary people one knows already one might just as well stay at home and ring them up instead of having all the business of remembering the right day.’

  ‘I wonder why Basil isn’t here. I thought he was bound to be.’

  ‘Didn’t he go abroad?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Don’t you remember, he had dinner with us the other evening?’

  ‘Did he? When?’

  ‘Darling, how can I remember that? … there’s Angela —she’ll know.’

  ‘Angela, has Basil gone away?’

  ‘Yes, somewhere quite extraordinary.’

  ‘My dear, is that rather heaven for you?’

  ‘Well, in away…’

  Basil was awakened by the clank and rattle of steel cable as the anchor was lowered. He went up on deck in pyjamas. The whole sky was aflame with green and silver dawn. Half-covered figures of other passengers sprawled asleep on benches and chairs. The sailors paddled between them on bare feet, clearing the hatches; a junior officer on the bridge shouting orders to the men at the winch. Two lighters were already alongside preparing to take off cargo. A dozen small boats clustered round them, loaded with fruit.

  Quarter of a mile distant lay the low sea-front of Matodi; the minaret, the Portuguese ramparts, the mission church, a few warehouses taller than the rest, the Grand Hotel de l’Empereur Amurath stood out from the white-and-dun cluster of roofs; behind and on either side stretched the meadowland and green plantations of the Azanian coast-line, groves of tufted palm at the water’s edge. Beyond and still obscured by mist rose the great’ crests of the Sakuyu mountains, the Ukaka pass and the road to Debra Dowa.

  The purser joined Basil at the rail.

  ‘You disembark here, Mr Seal, do you not?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You are the only passenger. We sail again at noon.’

  ‘I shall be ready to go ashore as soon as I am dressed.’

  ‘You are making a long stay in Azania?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘On business? I have heard it is an interesting country.’

  But for once Basil was disinclined to be instructive. ‘Purely for pleasure,’ he said. Then he went below, dressed and fastened his bags. His cabin companion looked at his watch, scowled and turned his face to the wall; later he missed his shaving soap, bedroom slippers and the fine topee he had bought a few days earlier at Port Said.

  Chapter Four

  The Matodi terminus of the Grand Chemin de Fer d’ Azanie lay half a mile inland from the town. A broad avenue led to it, red earth scarred by deep ruts and potholes; on either side grew irregular lines of acacia trees. Between the trees were strings of different-coloured flags. A gang of convicts, chained neck to neck, were struggling to shift a rusty motor-car which lay on its side blocking the road. It had come to grief there six months previously, having been driven recklessly into some cattle by an Arab driver. He was now doing time in prison in default of damages. White ants had devoured the tyres; various pieces of mechanism had been removed from time to time to repair other engines. A Sakuyu family had set up house in the back, enclosing the space between the wheels with an intricate structure of rags, tin, mud and grass.

  That was in the good times when the Emperor was in the hills. Now he was back again and the town was overrun with soldiers and government officials. It was by his orders that this motor-car was being removed. Everything had been like that for three weeks, bustle everywhere, proclamations posted up on every wall, troops drilling, buglings, hangings, the whole town kept awake all day; in the Arab Club feeling ran high against the new régime.

  Mahmud el Khali bin Sai-ud, frail descendant of the oldest family in Matodi, sat among his kinsmen, moodily browsing over his lapful of khat. The sunlight streamed in through the lattice shutters, throwing a diaper of light over the worn carpets and divan; two of the amber mouthpieces of the hubble-bubble were missing; the rocking-chair in the corner was no longer safe, the veneer was splitting and peeling off the rosewood table. These. poor remnants were all that remained of the decent people of Matodi; the fine cavaliers had been scattered and cut down in battle. Here were six old men and two dissipated youngsters, one of whom was liable to fits of epilepsy. There was no room for a gentleman in Matodi nowadays, they remarked. You could not recount an anecdote in the streets or pause on the waterfront to discuss with. full propriety the sale of land or the pedigree of a stallion, but you were jostled against the wall by black men or Indians, dirty fellows with foreskins; unbelievers, descendants of slaves; judges from up-country, upstarts, jack-in-office, giving decisions against you in the courts … Jews foreclosing on mortgages … taxation … vulgar display … no respect of leisure, hanging up wretched little flags everywhere, clearing up the streets, moving derelict motorcars while their owners were not in a position to defend them. Today there was an ordinance forbidding the use of Arab dress. Were they, at their time of life, to start decking themselves out in coat and trousers and topee like a lot of half-caste bank clerks? … besides, the prices tailors charged … it was a put-up job … you might as well be in a British colony.

  Meanwhile, with much overseeing and shouting and banging of behinds, preparations were in progress on the route to the railway station; the first train since the troubles was due to leave that afternoon.

  It had taken a long time to get a train together. On the eve of the battle of Ukaka the stationmaster and all the more responsible members of his staff had left for the mainland. In the week that followed Seth’s victory they had returned one by one with various explanations of their absence. Then there had been the tedious business of repairing the line which both armies had ruined at several places; they had had to collect wood fuel for the engine and wire for the telegraph lines. This had been the longest delay, for no sooner was it procured from the mainland than it was stolen by General Connolly’s disbanded soldiers to decorate the arms and legs of their women. Finally, when everything had been prepared, it was decided to delay the train a few days until the arrival of the mail ship from Europe. It thus happened that Basil Seal’s arrival in Matodi coincided with the date fixed for Seth’s triumphal return to Debra Dowa.

  Arrangements for his departure had been
made with great care by the Emperor himself, and the chief features embodied in a proclamation in Sakuyu, Arabic and French, which was posted prominently among the many pronouncements which heralded the advent of Progress and the New Age.

  ORDER FOR THE DAY OF THE

  EMPEROR’S DEPARTURE

  (1) The Emperor will proceed to Matodi railway station at 14.30 hours (8.30 Mohammedan time). He will be attended by his personal suite, the Commander-in-Chief and the General Staff The guard of honour will be composed of the first battalion of the Imperial Life Guards. Full dress uniform (boots for officers), will be worn by all ranks. Civilian ‘ gentlemen will wear jacket and orders. Ball ammunition will not be issued to the troops.

  (2) The Emperor will be received at the foot of the station steps by the stationmaster who will conduct him to his carriage. The public will not be admitted to the platforms, or to any of the station buildings with the exception of the following, in the following order of precedence. Consular representatives of foreign powers, the Nestorian Metropolitan of Matodi, the Vicar Apostolic, the Mormon elder, officers of H.I.M. forces, directors of the Grand Chemin de Fer d’Azanie, peers of the Azanian Empire, representatives of the Press. No person, irrespective of rank, will be admitted to the platform improperly dressed or under the influence of alcohol.

  (3) The public will be permitted to line the route to the station. The police will prevent the discharge of firearms by the public.

  (4) The sale of alcoholic liquor is forbidden from midnight until the departure of the Imperial train.

  (5) One coach will be available for the use of the unofficial travellers to Debra Dowa. Applications should be made to the stationmaster. No passenger will be admitted to the platform after 14.00.

  (6) Any infringement of the following regulations renders the offender liable to a penalty not exceeding ten years’ imprisonment, or confiscation of property and loss of rights, or both.